


in rilievo

by Anonymous



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: (light) Bondage, (mild) Verbal Humiliation, (pre-negotiated) Rape Roleplay, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, both in-scene and pre-scene, largely just a PWP!, some gagging, some salty language, some subspace and some crying, the fun kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 05:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: rilievo(gen, arte, ricamo) in relief, embossed, carved, standing out(importanza) importance, highlighted, (to) bring (sth) outL'interazione tra i tre danzatori mette in rilievo una caratteristica specifica del mondo maschile: l'amicizia.





	in rilievo

**Author's Note:**

> rpf: all parties herein are fictionalized to within an inch of their lives. don't read unless you, too, are in the small coterie of people seeking connection and catharsis for unsorted parasocial yearnings in this strange digital age, or if it will for some other reason bring you joy. 
> 
> huh, another little fic with a pretentious title and filthy kinks and more time spent negotiating polycules than actually porking. WONDER WHOSE IT COULD BE -fish.

### altorilievo

The door slams. That’d be Pat. 

Brian sighs and turns on his side. He’s too bone-tired for greetings. He’ll just wait here in bed. 

The door slams again._ Huh? _

Brian drags himself up on his elbows, waits to hear footsteps down the hall. He’s so fucking _ wiped _. Twelve hours or more of traveling, bumped from his friggin’ flight, and he knows he looks like a filthy scruffy mess. 

> ** _dont bother coming over _ **

is what he’d texted to Pat, in the Lyft home: 

> **_i want to see you but im just so tired _** ** _  
_ ** ** _and gross_ ** ** _  
_ ** ** _probly conk out immediately haha_ **

But Pat was insistent, in that understated way he has: 

> ** _I’ll come anyway._****  
** ** _Don’t stay up though._ **

Pat’s like that. Even when Brian just really doesn’t have it in him to be thoughtful, to kiss and cuddle and talk about his trip and ask Pat how he’s been. Pat’ll show up quietly and crawl into bed beside his beat-up travel-worn boyfriend and be there to kiss him awake in the morning under his raccoony eyes. Brian appreciates it, but he can’t muster real gratefulness ‘til the morning, when he’ll be able to fit sentences together and touch gently and make sounds that aren’t just breathy whines of need and exhaustion. 

God, he’s definitely not gonna stay up. He’d barely had it in him to hug Jonah hello and get his suitcase in his room and ask where Laura is. She’s out tonight, supervising a sleepover apparently, which normally would mean a raucous boys’ night of debauchery—but _ not tonight, Jo, I’m just too tired, I told Pat I’m going to bed but he’ll probably show up at some point anyway you know how he is. _

Jonah’s gracious enough to not look disappointed in the slightest. He just nods as Brian drags himself off to his bed, crawls in the covers, lets himself drift to sleep. 

Only now he’s not sleeping. That door slam_— _

He’s sitting up, feeling grey and drained of color, except a pale spark of curiosity at the noise...

it’s talking, probably, but it was weird, clipped short. Sort of a muffled exclamation. Almost a shout. 

Bleary-eyed or no, Brian’s not capable of falling asleep with a question in his head. He shoves himself up with a groan and sticks his head out of his bedroom, listening for Pat or Laura or axe-murderers or whoever's rattling thin apartment doors at this hour. 

“—_ridiculous _ .” Jonah’s voice trails down the hall. He’s in the kitchen. Talking to someone, but not with his normal inflection—Jo’s voice is always deep and wide, but when he’s pissed it's a bit shorter. Snarly. Oho, now Brian _ really _needs to see what’s going on. Even if it’s just a very rude FedEx guy getting told off. 

Bri slips sock-footed down the hall to investigate why Jonah’s gruff and angry and why the two slams and why Pat hasn’t swept in yet to kiss the dickens out of him and— 

oh, _ wow. _

They’re..._ fighting_?

Or making out, maybe. One or the other. Jonah’s got Pat up against the door by the shoulders. His thumbs press in hard, bunching Pat’s shirt, focused pressure just above the slim collarbones. For his part, Pat’s fingers wrap Jonah’s wrists, like he’s just about to push him off. Or maybe like he just has tried and failed. They’re staring at each other—Brian can only glimpse Pat’s expression—he’s scowling prettily up into Jo’s face—_gosh, _it’s something, to see Pat looking up—

“Why the fuck are you here, Patrick,” Jonah hisses, that same venomous-dark tone. 

“Get your fucking hands _ off _me,” Pat matches him, rough-for-rough, and pushes— 

Pat’s strong enough to get a good push off, even with the weird angle, to get himself a couple inches of slack. But it doesn’t work, not when Jo bears down and _ slams _him back, the third crisp report pealing out as Pat’s head jerks into the door and bounces. The impact strikes and shivers his body from top to bottom. It makes his expression flutter, too, before it settles back to gruff. 

“He _ told _you not to come here tonight, Gill. Get out.” 

“Like hell—” Pat’s voice is moving into something stern, but it’s interrupted along the way by the shift of Jonah’s hands—he ends his sentence in a gasp instead. Pat sets his jaw against the pain, but Jo’s fingers dig in hard enough to coax a second noise out from his thin-pressed lips. 

“Jonah!” Brian breaks in, uncertain what he’s witnessing. “What the—it’s _ fine_—he’s fine!”

They both turn, startle—

—disengage hastily—

and then there are two sets of wide eyes looking at Brian with twin guilty expressions. 

“Oh, gosh,” Jonah rounds his shoulders, withdraws his hands back to himself. He doesn’t get smaller, of course, and yet he _ does _ somehow, that fierce posture drops in an instant, a magician’s sheet that falls to reveal the conjurer behind. Said conjurer looks sheepish. “We thought you were already asleep.” 

“Sorry,” Pat murmurs, voice still a little left-of-center compared to where it normally is. “I wasn’t gonna bother you ‘til morning. My bad.”

Brian blinks. He’s still used-up and drowsy, so it’s taking him a second to process. “Is...is _ this _what you two do when I’m asleep?”

“No, no—_" _Jonah gestures, a quick sweep of the hand. 

“Not _always,” _Pat interrupts, a little short and trending on toward snarky. His face is pink, worked up from fighting, maybe, or maybe embarrassment. Probably the second one, ‘cause he’s tensing, closing off his expression, holding his elbows like he’s getting ready for something. To be told off. To be mocked. To apologize again. Something. 

“Oh my fucking god you both _suck_,” Brian pouts, loud and brassy. “I’ve been missing out all this time!”

Pat barks a laugh at that, a burst of controlled air released. “We really—we don’t mess around often. You’re not, uh, missing—_” _he shrugs the tension out of his shoulders. “—I mean, it’s not like we’re around each other a ton without you.” 

Jonah’s face has found one of his shyer smiles. “And when you’re there we tend to get distracted.” 

“Not tonight,” Brian declares, crossing his arms. “I’m tired and I’m gross and I’m not up for sex tonight.” 

“Sorry, Bri,” Pat rubs his hand across his forearm as he unclasps. Thus freed, it floats thoughtlessly up to his hair. “You should go back to bed. I can come with you, if you want, or I can—”

“You are _ not _sending me to bed.”

Pat’s eyes dart up at the sharp tone. His redness hasn't receded yet, but his expression loosens. Brian holds his gaze, crinkles his nose, crosses his arms, does everything he can think of to project _bratty stubbornness_ without trying to thread together more words. 

It works, maybe. Pat's face grows less shy and caught. More dark. More _ wicked _. Putting away his gentleness to stretch out other things. “Well, it’s past your bedtime, baby boy. You’re tired.” 

“No! I wanna watch you guys _ play_.” He knows that plaintive-whiny tone would get him slapped, if it were just them two. But Pat’s not close enough right now. Pat’s still a hairs-breadth away from Jonah, trying to muster a glare, and Jo’s smiling with that _ look_ he gets when they’re composing some wild goofy song—clever, quick-thinking-amused. 

Pat sighs, long-suffering. “Brian, don’t be a brat. Just go to sleep. We’ll work it ou—”

“Shut up,” Jonah interrupts, and presses his broad flat palm into the center of Pat’s chest, pushes him back against the wood. “He doesn’t have to listen to you.” 

Pat lets himself be pushed, lets Jonah square off hips against his own, lets his skinny arms fall loosely on Jonah’s shoulders. It’s coy, the look he’s giving, wrists crossed casually behind the larger man’s head. Surprisingly sultry. Maybe he’s emboldened by the audience, or maybe this is just how these two _ are _ when Brian’s not there. “Well, by that logic, I don’t have to listen to _ you_, either.” 

“I think you do.” Jonah’s hands slide down to Pat’s waist, and it’d be almost like they were dancing, if Jonah’s knee wasn’t catching under Pat’s leg and forcing it out, angling him for less leverage. “I think Brian doesn’t want your company tonight. So if you won’t leave I’ll just have to show you the door.” 

Pat taps his head back, hits it with the crown. “Found it.” 

“Fucking smartass,” Jonah snorts. “Bri, why do you put up with him.” 

Fatigue forgotten, Brian’s heart _jumps _at the way Pat’s breath heaves in his chest, at the contrast of these two bodies he knows so well. “Uh…he’s a good lay?” 

“Oh, thanks,” Pat grumbles. 

“Don’t you fucking talk to him,” Jonah growls, and closes the gap of centimeters to lay into Pat with a brutal kiss. It’s toothy and _ rude_, unconcerned of how their glasses or their noses collide, and whether Patrick kisses back or not. Brian can’t quite triangulate if he is. Kissing back, that is. Maybe the muffled noises are moans of enthusiasm or maybe they're grunts of strangled effort. Can’t tell, but _ fuck, _the sounds crawl up inside of Brian and stir ripples of interest in what a moment ago was just sleep-dark and still. 

Jonah’s whole body presses into Pat’s, curls over him. He pushes and pulls and takes and shoves, and Pat juts his chin up sharp and fights fire with fire. His long-fingered hands go from their casual resting place to grappling Jonah’s sides, fighting, either to push away or stay in close. Can't tell. 

They dive up for air with a shared gasp, but Jo doesn’t lose the initiative. He has Pat’s wrists in a second, up above his head, pins them—

it only takes one hand, for both, Pat’s _ everything _ is slender and Jonah’s palm can span a tenth—

his feet continue to wedge Pat’s apart, press the advantage of height—

his other hand is on that bristly chin, forcing it up— 

god, Brian can _ feel _ it. This is that thing that Jonah does, overwhelms you with force here and here and _ here _ and you could fight him on one front that’d be no problem but if you _ did _ he’d just get you gutted with the others. He’s flexible. He’s quick. He’s confident. And yet, despite the familiarity, he’s moving some way Brian doesn’t quite recognize—less gentleness, or more decisive— 

Brian shifts to get a better view, slides along the counter. Even while moving, he’s barely in the penumbra of their attention. Pat’s eyes flick toward him for a quarter-second, tops_. _There are more pressing things to worry about than where his nosy sleepy boyfriend is perching. Like how Jonah's grinding his hips into Pat's suggestively. 

Pat’s not _ fighting_, but he’s not _ yielding, _either. It’s hard to explain. He looks—his face is illuminated with something like humor. A bit of pleasure, a bit resistant. Attentive to the point of stubbornness. Like Jonah’s a book he’s reading and he doesn’t know how many stars out of five he’s gonna give, yet. 

“I need to teach you some manners,” Jonah slides the chin-hand down a touch, until his fingers wrap around Pat’s neck. 

“Oh?” Gosh, that innocent tone is a taunt, when someone has you like _ that_.

“Mmhmm. You need to learn to do what you’re told.” 

“Am I in for a lecture? Or more of an object lesson,” Pat smirks. 

Oh, it’s so friggin’ _fun_ to see Pat be naughty. To see it like this. Brian’s fucked them both, of course—alone, together—goofy and kinky and serious and everything in between. But normally the lamplight of their attention is tilted toward him, their steps and their expressions clear and bright, their own interplay fading into soft focus in the distance. He’s seen Pat wicked and playful and vulnerable, but never all at once. 

Jonah, for his part, is smoothly unreactive. His hand slides, slow, inexorable, around the side of Patrick’s neck, up the nape, ends with his fingers buried deep in dark smooth hair. Pat’s eyes flutter shut for a moment—he’s so _ sensitive _to people touching his hair—Jonah must know this, must’ve seen Brian shake him out of a scene with dirty tricks at least a half-dozen times. 

“Come on, you,” Jonah _ jerks _him hard, hair-first, grip firm but still eliciting a yelp. He turns and starts to walk and Pat has to come stumbling after, huffing out a breath of surprise and fighting to keep his feet under him. 

They pause. Jonah’s eyes flick to Brian. The gaze lingers for a long second, pleased and warm, but not as _ soft and cuddly _as he’s used to. This edgy look would push Brian’s sleepiness aside, if it weren't already long out of the picture—already pushed off the nearest cliff and hurtled down ten stories and smashed into the choppy waters below. 

“We’ll be in my room,” Jonah says, nonchalantly. “Come if you want to watch. But you can go to bed if you like. I’ll keep him quiet.” 

Brian scrambles after almost as fast as Pat is forced to. 

`%%%%%%%`

### bassorilievo

Jonah is still learning how to take Pat apart. He knows the general idea, but he’s iterating on different variants, trying to find the one that pulls out the best noises, squirming, screams. 

Pat likes to be treated roughly, that’s clear enough, but Jo’s sorting out _how _roughly, figuring out which types of carefully-uncareful touches unpick his curled-up smirk and turn it soft and open. Pat doesn’t talk much about what he likes, other than Brian. Which Jonah certainly understands but which is wildly unhelpful. You can’t just throw a Brian at every challenge, talented problem-solver though he is. 

But yes, it’s clear that Pat shares more with Brian than just slim beautiful wrists and long lovely hair. He loves to be fuckin’ manhandled, even if he can’t talk about it, even if his good Catholic-boy face looks at turns too innocent and too butch to permit the suggestion out loud. The harder the push, the tighter the grip, the more Jonah presses his size advantage—Jonah’s always had a size advantage, with almost everyone he’s ever been around—the more pitiful the sounds he rips out of that wry stringy idiot. So much the better. 

They’ve negotiated basics before_—marks? yes please—bruises? I said yes—ropes? __I’m just gonna keep saying yes, Jonah_—before, but Pat’s rarely precise. Sometimes he can't explain. Sometimes he's never tried. Sometimes his face blooms crimson and he can barely make his mouth say yes.

That’s all right. Jonah’s none too worried about being given a blank slate, a clean palette to work from. It’s like composing a song. You gotta start from just about nothing and start layering it in. 

“What’re we looking at, tonight,” Jonah murmurs, quiet as he can, to Patrick. “Should I ease up? Too much?” 

Brian’s settling himself cross-legged in the chair next to Jo’s bookcase, gripping his knees as if not-holding them would launch him into the air. So much for being _ tired_. Jonah ignores him, for the moment. 

“No, no, it’s all been good,” Pat matches his whisper back. It’s profoundly funny, how that serene and reasonable tone emerges when he's like this, when Jonah’s got his fingers wrapped cruelly in Patrick’s locks and his body’s nearly doubled-over to reduce the pull of it. “Loving it. You want to fuck me, or…?”

“Kinda where I was going, yeah. D’you want to fight, or should I shift to something sweeter?” 

“I always want to fight,” he snorts. “But we shouldn’t keep the kid up late. I can be good.” 

“No need,” Jonah tweaks his hair a bit. “I can be quick. Whether you cooperate or not.” 

“Oh daddy talk _ dirty _ to me,” Pat mocks. 

Bri huffs in a little breath at that—it’s just a joke, really, out-of-scene negotiation—embroidered with that glint of sarcasm Patrick needs to keep himself afloat. But...

something in Pat’s tone must catch in Brian’s ears. It makes him clutch his knees tighter, catch his breath. Jonah contemplates that, for half-a-second. Bri knows Pat really, _ really _well. Maybe he should ask— 

“I can do dirty talk. Any specific requests?” 

Pat turns a bit—he can’t hardly turn away, but he does turn— “Um. Your usual is good. Or worse, even.”

“Hmm. Worse, how?” 

“Whatever you feel like,” Pat's lip twitches, a touch wry. “Yeah, I know that's a cop-out. But uh. You can fuck me right up. You’re not gonna scare off Brian. You should hear the things I say to him.” 

Jonah can’t help smirking. Something in Pat pulls the banter out of him. “I hear plenty. Even when I’m not in the room.” 

“Yeah but I assume that’s mostly _ Oh Pat your dick is so great and fuck you really know how to use it, unlike my other boyf—_”

Jonah interrupts that stage-whisper with force. 

It takes a little finesse, to slam somebody into the wall face-first and not break their nose. Mostly it's just strength on Jonah's part, deliberate strength and movements fast enough to be exciting but slow enough that they telegraph what he's doing. It's Pat that has to do all the hard work, the agility and the improv, keep tense and limber and keep his safeword well in mind. 

Pat's _good _at it though, at being thrown, at stumbling, at taking the impact on his forearms, his chest. He stretches out his reaction times, makes them more theatrical, makes real but only reactive movements, fights but not _unpredictably. _

It makes it easy, to slam Pat's chest into the wall, slide a hand into the small of his back, force his arm up hard behind him. He gets his foot where he wants it, and his arm, and his hips, before Pat’s even done giving a drawn-out _oof _of strangled pain. They’re in it, now. So far he’s painted in the undercurrent, the theme—the punctuations of his fingertip bruises are just a counterpoint—and he finds he wants to lean in to that melody if possible.

“Are you mockingme, Gill? Right now? I thought you were smarter than that.”

“No idea why,” Pat pants, and tries in _earnest _to yank himself away, but Jonah's braced for it and just steps with the motion. The little defeated scoff is good, as Pat tips his forehead into the wall. 

_God, _having Pat under his hands, twisted up and fighting just-a-little is wonderful. He feels halfway between he’s caught a butterfly and he’s pinched a burglar. Beautiful, and deserves it. 

“I’m gonna fuck some sense into you,” he breathes into Pat’s neck, and bites down hard right through the thin cotton of his shirt. 

“Many have tried,” Pat groans, feathery-weak and still _ smarmy_, even with his arm twisting so hard he can’t do much of anything but scrabble his loose hand at the wall. 

Jo’s figured out that most of the game here is how to pin his arms. Patrick’s too worried he’ll hurt someone if he kicks out with those long legs—he’s not like Brian, whose feet are almost as agile as his hands and will come winging at your face if you give him half-a-second—no, with Pat it’s pretty easy. There are a couple control points. Wrists. Shoulders. Hips. Neck. You run a few of those, and you own him. 

Jonah’s never actually _ tried _ to mark him up before, their secret evening rendezvous being recent and somewhat discreet. Plus, it’s a bad look to send the boy to his desk job looking like he’s been fucked up rude and ugly. People will whisper, they’ll stare, they’d take him aside to ask him if he’s _ really all right, _with dark purple fingermarks all up his arm and matching ones curved around the back of his neck. 

But Pat’s made clear he doesn’t mind. _ It’s goddamn humiliating_, he grunted, when asked, _ so I love it. _

“Your boyfriend’s gonna hear you scream,” Jonah hisses, under his ear. The shiver is a fuckin’ delight— 

as is Brian’s wanton little sound of interest, almost a whimper. Jo’s not as much a performer as Brian, maybe, but he thinks he can pull off something. He contemplates it as he sucks a dark vampiric bruise into the crook of Patrick’s neck. 

“I—doubt that—” Pat gets out, a petulant whine of faint resistance that’s easily ignored. It feels good, to twist his wrist harder, to press the length of his body up against Pat’s own, hot and sweating and bony-squirming. 

“You’re fuckin’ pathetic,” Jonah gropes between his legs, cherishes the gasp. “Come over horny all hours of the night. Brian’s not your _ booty call_.” 

“It’s none of your—goddamn—business—what we—” 

“_Wrong, _ Patrick,” he grunts, and yanks Pat off the wall. He doesn’t angle for the bed just yet, instead envelops Pat in a crushing hug, wrist still tight in his grasp. Brian likes that. Pat seems to like it, too; he _ trembles. _“I’m gonna fuckin’ teach you some respect. Bri, can you get his pants off?” 

Brian _ leaps _up to help, a coiled spring unclipped. He’s shucking off Pat’s skinny jeans before either of them can really react, can help or fight—Pat doesn’t kick, just lets himself be stripped and holds his body still, maintaining tension against Jonah’s grip. 

“Fine,” Pat murmurs, and the meaning is impossible to guess. 

“Fine?” Jonah inquires, keeps his voice low which he waits for developments.

Pat turns where he’s wrapped tight in Jo’s embrace, presses his forehead into Jonah’s cheekbone, an oddly tender gesture that doesn’t match the words. “_Fine_, I’ll leave. Just—just let me go…?” 

It’s not really fearful yet, not even proper _ acting_, just flat and still and lightly questioning. 

“I don’t think so,” Jonah _ growls _, his darkest and most dangerous, and it shoots tension down Pat’s back like a plucked string. “You came over for some action and now you’re getting it.” 

It’s just too delicious, too perfect in timing, with Brian crouching at his ankles and Pat just starting to relax into his role. So Jonah dares, he does it, he shoves—

Pat goes sprawling _over_ Brian—

that earns a squeak from below at the same time as Pat shifts and swears and stumbles above—

Patrick's good though, he's so fuckin' _good_, takes the hit to his shins with barely a wince while he angles himself, doesn't collapse all over his boyfriend—

stagger-steps left upright but unstable, completely perfect, ripe for tackling—

“C’mon Gill,” Jonah snaps, a threat, a promise, a half-second of warning. “Show me what you got.”

`%%%%%%%`

### mezzorilievo

They’ve only done this a half-dozen times, and _ this _ part_, _three at most. The part where Pat’s on his back on Jonah’s bed, gripping the headboard because there’s nothing else his cuffed hands can reach, while Jo lifts his legs, angles him up obscenely—

Jonah is fucking _big. _In many dimensions. The height, for one: he's stupid tall, and that's especially fucking clear right now Pat’s neck is forced to take the pressure of the flection, hips well off the bed, Jo’s calloused fingertips digging rudely into his ass. 

But height’s not what makes Pat’s breath catch in his throat, right this moment. Not height. It’s not Jonah’s stupid height or his broad shoulders or his strong hands or his unbelievably wide smile. 

Nope, it’s his cock.

That's the dimension that's got Pat heart lurching, lust-drunk and _just barely _on this side of terror. His thick hard dick of reasonable length but absolutely _ sinful _ girth, the one that’s sneaking up against Pat’s entrance now and making him pant and squirm. It’s pointless, trying to wriggle away from Jonah’s vise-like grip. He’d have to kick the guy right in the goddamn stomach, and even then Pat’s not sure it would work out so good for him in the long run.

“_Stop_, you bastard,” he gasps, and he supposes one could interpret that as _stop teasing_ _you jerk and fuck me. _If one ignored some other fairly overt cues of body language. If one wanted to take it that way. 

There are other ways one could take it, though. If one were so inclined. 

_Begging for mercy_ comes to mind. 

But Jonah's grinning far too hard for mercy and Brian isn’t listening to begging anymore and Pat feels sweaty and helpless and _ desperate_.

“Manners,” Jonah mocks, and cants his hips _just so_ his bulging cock drags up the crack of Pat's ass. The catch of friction is—

fucking terrifying, is what it is.

Not terrifying-out-of-nowhere, the first clean shocking kill of a horror movie. No, no, more like the second one. The one where you already know what lurks. What's coming. Who deserves it. 

“You _ can’t—_” Pat's voice cracks. 

The first time it did that, Bri’s face went a bit funny. Not _scared_ exactly, just thoughtful. Like he was tracing out the curves of a new instrument, trying keys, heard some unexpected note. Brian's too accomplished a musician to be _afraid _of any sound that comes out of Patrick. But new sounds_—_well, those beckon to his accomplished fingertips, make him lean in with an expert's hand, find beauty in the dissonance, eyes bright and clever-wondering how to strike those chords again.

It made Pat blush, that curious searching look, but soon there was too much going on to worry about being scrutinized. Jonah is—

_incredible_, he’s incredible—

he’s everywhere at once, fast and slow, hot and heavy and strong and smooth, and he’s holding all the cards now and teasing with something that could be real cruelty, if Patrick lets himself believe— 

“_God_—” he forces out. Words are pathetic, useless, but he’s lost the fucking fight and he’s out of goddamn options. “I’m not _ready_—you gotta let me—” 

“Whore,” Jonah spits, and _ god_, does he sell it. “Not asking pretty enough yet.”

“_Please,_” Pat begs, playing against type but what can you do, when Jonah’s hips are bucking boldly, a promise and a threat. The guy’s not gonna slip in by fucking_ accident—_

and Pat’s got his safeword besides, of course, of course, right—

but it’s easy to get carried away, by the pull of the cuffs, the lewd and wicked angle, the words, the touches, the ache of bruises yet to be born. 

Pat screws his eyes shut so he can’t see Brian hovering, and lets the push and his face and the threat burn together, lets his voice race up to angry and thready and frantic. “_Please _ let me get opened up, you fuck, or else you’ll—”

Jonah scoffs, uses his fingers to push his lubed tip against Pat’s hole. “You’re the one that wanted to go fast.” 

“I’ll—_please_—you've gotta—”

“I don't gotta do _shit _for you.”

“—then let me do it myself—I’ll be quick—_please_—”

“Fuck that,” Jonah laughs, he _laughs_, and somewhere distant there's another Patrick who finds that charming rather that gut-wrenching. “You don’t _deserve_ to touch yourself. That’s not why you came over here, is it? You came over to get laid. You can jerk off at home.” 

Pat can’t fucking stop the noise he’s making. The sniveling sounds odd to his ears, like a recording, like a third—like a _fourth _person—someone that surely isn't him, someone pathetic, someone wet with tears and snot, kicking out with bruised limbs and begging plaintively. 

“Jo, can I eat him out?” Brian chirps, from somewhere near Pat’s head.

There’s pressure on the bed and he might be crawling onto it, actually. Fucking kid can’t just _ keep out _of it— 

“No,” Jonah commands. “He’s probably filthy, and I’m not gonna let him shower.” 

“At least let me finger him,” Brian wheedles, and Pat cracks an eyelid— 

Brian’s on all fours, looking up, and Jonah’s staring down like a stern schoolmaster. It’s hard to deny the teacher’s pet. Pat knows the feeling.

“Fine,” Jonah sighs, put-upon. “But he doesn’t deserve it. Say thank you, Pat.” 

“_Fuck _ you,” Patrick gasps in feverish relief, earns himself a hearty smack on the ass before he’s dropped unceremoniously. He focuses on his breathing for a second, while the two switch positions around Pat’s helpless body. He tries to claw up some kind of reasonableness. How much of this _ oh-no-please-stop-fuck-you _bullshit can Brian take? How much before— 

it cuts the train of thought, when Brian takes Jonah’s spot between his legs. The kid’s grip is gentler when he swings Pat’s knees over his shoulders—he lets Pat’s back stay resting on the bed, without the struggling need for core strength. Still, his back stays tense, because Jonah's at his side, bending his mouth over Pat’s naked torso. He grits through a_ moan _as teeth find his nipple, and more as the biting-sucking-licking intensifies. Jo rumbles with amusement. 

Brian’s slow, one lube-soaked condom-tipped finger at first, just barely testing. Pat feels tight in more ways than one, pinned tight by Jonah’s broad flat palms and tight around Brian’s finger and tight with anticipation. 

He’s _ so fucking slow_, it’s hell, it’s _ hell, _as Jonah sucks a patchwork of telling bruises into Pat’s skin. 

“I’m not made of _ glass_,” Pat gripes down toward Brian, as one finger_ achingly _turns into two. “You can move faster than that.”

The fingers hesitate, but Jonah only chuckles, unperturbed, amused. “Bored? Maybe I should fuck your face while we wait. You recording any audio tomorrow?” 

Pat’s breath hitches a bit. He isn’t—

is he? It’s hard to remember your fucking work schedule when you’re contemplating what that would feel like—

choking helplessly around Jonah’s cock while Brian’s fingers spread and probe— 

“You wouldn’t _ dare_,” Pat bites out, ‘cause it can’t hurt to _ try_—

—well yes, okay, it _can _hurt but that's the fucking point. 

“Oh wouldn’t I,” Jonah laughs again, that charming villain, and swings his leg over Pat. Then there's pressure on his chest and fingers pushing his forearms and a firm hand cupping his head, pulling it up, and then Jonah’s feeding him his— 

oh Jesus Christ, he’s gonna be not nearly as good at this as Brian is—

blowjobs, Pat can handle, even with his bad knees, but this is fucking _ something else_—

wet and awkward and effortful and the depth, the rhythm, all of it is thrillingly outside of Pat’s control—

he can barely keep his stupid mouth open, his head up, let alone try anything _ sexy _— 

but Jonah doesn’t seem to mind. He just presses his tip inexorably past Pat’s lips and tangles his fingers in Pat’s trapped ones. _“Squeeze if it’s too much_,” he murmurs, and Pat’s fucking glad for that.

He has to squeeze _several _ times, to beg for and receive a centimeter of reprieve when he needs it, a moment to master the swelling of panic. He’s gagging, at the angle, the weight, the overwhelming _ trapped _feeling— 

the body-shaking urge to _ buck _ when Brian finds his prostate— 

oh _ Jesus God _ in heaven it’s a lot. But they sort the angle, eventually, Jonah up on his knees a little higher than might be comfortable, Pat forcing down a little of his welling fear—yeah, if Jo slips Pat’ll be choking, but he’s not _ gonna_—all Pat needs to do is _relax_— 

Jonah just waits there, sits, lets Pat deal with the eye-tearing struggle of his length without any praise or mockery or hint of pity. 

“You’re hot like this,” Jonah notes, unmoved, unmoving. “Choking on my cock. Crying.” 

_Jesus Christ_—when Jonah says things like that—it makes Pat's cock twitch—he doesn’t know if it’s the embarrassment or if it’s that the little eager fingers inside him fucking _ slip _ with sudden interest— 

“I think you like it, too. Let’s see if you can suck. C’mon.” 

That, Pat can now do without losing too much oxygen, so he tries swirling his tongue and sucking as hard as the position permits. It must be decent, because Jo throws his head back and grunts _ there’s a good slut _with enthusiasm, though he doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t force himself in farther, just lets Pat try to suck while Brian tries every fingering trick picked up at goddamn band camp or whatever—

It feels—

it feels _ so much._

Pat feels—

distant, for a bit. 

There’s movement and there’s feeling and there’s not much else, the bite of air and the prodding of fingers and the delicious dread of impending pleasure and pain. The difference between sight and sound, touch and being touched, skin and slick and bodies...

for a few minutes, it's all rather uncategorizeable. 

Eventually, Pat breathes a gasp in through his mouth and finds it unimpeded. 

Eventually, his brain sorts out which sounds are his. 

Eventually time and space shuffle back together and bridge.

Jonah and Brian have swapped places at some point. Brian’s at Pat's side now, stroking a palm down the center of his chest, fingers ferreting out unseen spots of feeling—probably hickies, hard to tell—but only brushing them delicately, appraisingly, an antique dealer looking gently for signs of damage.

And Jo's between his legs again, somewhat lined up—

but he’s not moving, not probing or threatening or laughing. He might be talking, but it takes a while to zero in, to ignore the soothing stroke of his knuckles up the underside of Pat’s thigh. 

“—color, Pat?” 

“_Green_,” he hears himself rasp. “Fucking untie me though I _ have _to touch something—” 

“You do the honors, Brian,” Jonah intones, and the body near him moves, bends over him, and Pat strains up to kiss his exposed belly. He _has _to, he has to, the sweet-salt taste of Brian's skin is intoxicating, he's _missed it_, he's fucking missed it—misses it even over the span of hours—misses it every goddamn moment he's not touching it—

“Ooh!_ Naughty_,” Brian scolds and startles with a giggle, jerks away from the tickling touch. Pat fixes that, as soon as he's got his hand, wraps it tight around that slim waist and drags Brian down into a crushing kiss. 

Bri _tries _to shift his weight but Pat doesn't care, doesn't mind the pressure or the sweat, doesn't mind whether they touch hair or neck or face or chin or skin or muscle or bone. The kid curls agilely around him, and already Pat can feel the limbs sorting themselves out, pulling his weight, as Pat concerns himself primarily with kissing, clutching Brian like a lifeline—

and _Jesus God_, Jonah's fingers are thicker, rougher than Brian's, but they curl with the same devilish cleverness—

Pat whimpers into Brian’s mouth, pretenses fading into bare sensation. Brian’s weight is grounding, helpful, solid and firm, not trapping him exactly but heavy as an anchor, just beside and over and with him. 

Jonah goes _ too slow_—

_fuck—_

he's doing that shit on purpose, he has to know how that _feels_—

how wretchedly wonderful as his head catches on the way in-and-out-again.

Brian swallows Pat’s gasp though, hums at him in approval instead, pulls just a hairsbreadth away to whisper something almost inaudible but that sounds like _ you’re doing so good baby, so hot, you’re so worked up for it, ready for more, you want Jo deeper, don’t you? _

He nods tearily against Brian’s face, tries to form words—

but the message is already transmitted, somehow, somehow this game of three-way telephone is more efficient than Pat's unraveling brain. Jo's sliding slickly in with inexorable pressure. Pat _ keens, _shoves his sweat-soaked hair in Brian’s face as he pushes his forehead to Bri’s shoulder. He’s gripping too hard, he knows, but it’s too _ much, _it’s so much, it’s so good, the push of it. 

“T-touch me?” he whimpers out—

and god knows how the kid finds a hand free and gets it between them proper with all that’s going on—

but somehow he wriggles in and back and through and grazes fingers along Pat's length._ That _makes all the difference, makes him suck ragged air and tense and makes Jo give a low grunt of deep pooling pleasure. 

“Jerk him off,” Jonah murmurs. “Not too fast, though. I want him to feel it.” 

“_Thank you,_” Pat sobs, and moans, and in the middle of their attentions finds he can give up on words entirely and let himself be taken straight apart. 

`%%%%%%%`

### tuttorondo

Laura gets in early—well, eight isn’t _ particularly _early for her, but for the rest of this household it might as well be dawn—so she’s really surprised when she slips in her key and opens the door quiet and _wow_, Brian’s up and making breakfast!

Well, okay, so he's not making breakfast so much as standing half-dressed in the kitchen and reading the instructions for a packet of bacon like literally no one ever has in the history of time immemorial. 

She opens her mouth to say as much but Brian shushes her.

Then he shakes himself and says _ oh my god I'm sorry i'm too tired to be polite hi I love you I missed you good morning how was your sleepover? _

Laura snorts as she hugs her dumbass brother. Brian’s fine hair is _ royally _fucked up, stuck up and over and cowlicked all to hell, and those Gilbert eye bags are looking mighty fine this morning. 

“Chickenhead,” she teases, ruffles it with her fingers. “Shouldn't_ you _ be the one getting breakfast in bed? I thought you were tired as shit last night.” 

“Yeah,” Brian yawns. “But I just. Wanted to. ‘Sgood. My time zones’re weird.” 

Oh my lordy lord the way he’s trying to stab into that package of pork with a butterknife looks _ wildly _unsafe. Laura relieves him of it and he hands over the knife gratefully. 

“Go snuggle up, ya dingus. I’ll, like, throw on some bacon and hashbrowns. It'll take like a half-hour. Is Pat over?” 

“Yeah,” Brian grins muzzily. “He came over last night. It was good. He’s still sleeping, tho. I think he’s tireder than me. Jo tired him out.” 

“Oh my god no _ details please _ I am just trying to estimate coffee quantities!” 

Bri laughs at her spatula gesticulating and crowds in close to hug her again anyway. “You are the best,” he mumbles. “Best sister. Best roommate. Best breakfast planner.” 

“Go back and be gross with your boyfriends,” Laura detaches him. “I’m _ not _bringing food in there by the way. Like, just when you smell bacon mosey on out. Showered. In clothes. Clothed. No unclothed bacon-eating. Okay?” 

“Yessir,” Brian grins and slips out of her grasp, nearly stumbles into an open cabinet like the big doofus he is, and lopes all gawky back to Jonah’s room. 


End file.
